January 07, 2008

Sobriety sits like a dense, fleshy lump in the breast of my newly molded man tittie, said man tittie a result of decadent holiday desserts and second (nay third, fourth!) helpings of my granny's famous corn bread stuffing.

Deep within does sobriety linger, an alien coldness utterly foreign in comparison to the warm result of clinking carafes of cabernets, cocktails and champagnes guzzled in celebration of the birth of the Christ child and the ritual exchange of plastic barter cards whose only worth wavers on when Lynquesha or Kashandra or Je'Shay should return from their breaks to scan chosen sundries -- mine was toilet paper and light bulbs. Joyeaux Noel indeed!

Dearest reader -- how very rude of me. Allow me to take this precious moment to welcome you back, both of you. Alas it has been far too long since the virtual realm has been graced by my lofty and oft ill suited prose, but here in what very well feels to be my thirteenth hour, yours truly has mustered the merit to tap a few insignificant keys for your amusement -- and as you will discover -- your pity as well.

For sobriety comes in many forms, friends -- some view sobriety as a natural state, a sense of unaltered function not dissuaded by the ill effects of any number of intoxicants be they spirits (paranormal and distilled), chemical, pharmaceutical, lustful -- the list does indeed go on.

For these blanched, pure souls sobriety is simply being. I do not envy these clean living folk and I do indeed despise those who take such pride as to lord their unaltered states over those of us who are very much altered, for better or for worse.

And then some may view sobriety as a form of penance or (indeed fitting in the New Year) resolution to achieve goals, to drink less, to buy fewer baubles. This sobriety is the burden of those who indulged of such compulsive living and now -- in accordance with the unspoken rituals set forth by the OTHER holiday infant, Baby New Year -- must attempt at least the slightest pantomime of retribution or risk being voted off the island by those clean living types who miserably are so gosh darned happy there's nothing really to resolve.

And then there's sobriety as a dire means to avoid inevitable cataclysm, utter personal failure or, quite possibly, death -- this is the bleakest form: sobriety by utter necessity. Which do we value most?

Sobriety or a complete set of gleaming, pearly white teeth? Sobriety or a loving, caring spouse? Sobriety or eleven maxed out credit cards and constant telephone harassment by Lynquesha or Kashandra or Je'Shay on behalf of the creditors on behalf of the Baby Jesus on behalf of compulsive Christmas spending?

This is when sobriety becomes paramount and it's no longer a question of will I cheat a little on my silly resolution. It's a question of can I make it a day, a week, a month without fucking up one's entire life -- not to mention the lives of those who care the most about us -- toupee stylists, pet psychiatrists, Asian housekeepers and the beefy hooker slash personal trainer.

I'm speaking from the heart, dearest reader. I have struggled. I have fallen low amongst my fellow dandies. Where once loquacious lilies spouted inane prose and gossiped the goings on of Manhattan's social elite, now only ridicule, scorn, embarrassment and sloth attend my poetry circles, movie excursions and dismal dinner parties. I have been voted off the island figuratively and literally -- I am banned from Manhattan by the very people for whom I made names and reputations.

So now I tend to a tedious exile in Brooklyn. I am vegetarian. I am sober and oh so very boring. What is a dandy without sex, drugs and red meat?

August 02, 2007

My eyes meander a willow the wisp's twisting trail across the swampy-humid living room. Eventually they come to rest upon my blue eyed guy. Upon briefest scrutiny he glances back and pointedly says he, "What?"

Says I, "May I not gaze upon the manly visage of lover mine? May my proclamations of passion go forever not whispered, if only I may sneakest the briefest of peeks upon thine shiny forehead and shaggy whiskers."

And says I, "May the Heavens cry torrents of tears to flood every plain, valley and moor, if not the slightest of glimpses allowed am I to be blessed by your slightly larger than normal ears and cavernous, gaping pores."

And says I, "Remind you may I, the hairiest of warts upon our first date did I mistake, and being so foolish assumed did I that deformed were you with noses two?"

And says I, "May you look under foot. For buried in God's green Earth do hide such filthy, dirt caked, crawling things as to not rival your own sodden hide and odor spiced like opossum baked upon a black tar road."

July 27, 2007

Last night I attended the NYC River to River Festival 2007 held at historical (and hysterical thanks to Ranger Rob) Castle Clinton.

I wasn't there for the VIP seating. I was on the VIP guest list, granted.

I wasn't there for the VIP sandwiches or complimentary beer and wine. I had four beers and a glass of wine, nonetheless.

I was there to see Ms. Sharon Jones. And she brought the roof of that Revolutionary War era fort down. Granted, there's no roof, but had there been. Let me say... she's a stage presence unlike any woman before her. Even Ms. Tina Turner. I said it! Ms. Sharon gave her dues before embarking upon what Sharon called "her strut". But Sharon's strut is of a different breed. She's up there by the audience and for the audience and with the audience.

Not a show goes by that much of the audience doesn't end up on stage with her. Dancing and strutting their stuff at her invite. Last night, even a tiny, white haired granny got up there to jive with Ms. Sharon. Turns out the granny used to dance with Sister Sledge! We are family, indeed.

It's a terrific sensation to be eaten alive by the electric funk of Sharon's accompanying band, The Dap-Kings. The Dap-Kings are a mixture of now-too-cool-for-school band nerds with Jew-fros mixed with a hand full of old school Funk masters. Their sounds are out of the world, man. Dynamite.

And Ms. Sharon Jones' sassy singing wallows in that Funk to produce a sound that compels you to dance. There's no resisting it.

I'm celebrating my birthday at the Apollo Theater on October 6th when she plays her next gig here in New York. I do so hope you'll join me. And I do so hope I can get my white boy butt up there and do the funky chicken with Ms. Sharon Jones.

July 26, 2007

Yes, dandies. Your's truly (and my traveling companion and lover, Bryce) visited freedom's birthplace, the city of Philadelphia last weekend. Wow. Was I not impressed.

Walking those historic streets, one hand clutching the free map I nonetheless stole from the tourism board's kiosk, the other my purse as wave after wave of absolutely insane hobo berated us for handouts, I imagined what life must have been like for our early fathers... if only they lived in a 1980's mall staffed with homeless people and wearing very expensive flip-flops which twisted their cankles when perilously prancing across cobblestone. Ah, memories of Philly.

Please do not allow my disenchanted diatribe to persuade you of the notion that upon our arrival I didn't immediately partake of the city's vast historical offerings.

We quickly went to the what was self-named the birthplace of the cheese steak. So hungry was I that my gullet threatened to devour itself, emitting audible groans. I anticipated this cheese steak as bloated, third world orphans anticipate dry rice and dirt.

Alas...

My cheese steak was less than (third) world changing. In fact, it was a fairly run of the mill ... well ... (for lack of a better term) cheese steak.

On a side note: I watched the "Bad Girl's Road trip" last night and reminisced as the angriest of them, a native Philadelphian, returned to the city of her nez. The Bad Girls dined upon cheese steaks (and french fries! We didn't get french fries) at Geno's. Our greasy meat and cheese and onion and soggy bread monstrosity was grilled at Capo's. I cursed a hand full of "swear-os" that I hadn't gone with the more (obviously) famous of the two historic eateries.

Following our lunch, Bryce and I strolled into the historic district to take a gander at the many attractions this quaint area had to offer. I was remiss to discover no thrill rides, no reenactments (being from The South I do soooooo enjoy historical reenactments. It's part of my heritage that we change the endings, however), no one dressed as a slave or Alexander Hamilton. There were just cobblestone streets which, mentioned earlier, sorely hurt my dainty cankles as I strolled upon them and row after row of tiny brownstones. Yes they may hold historic significance, but would be far too small for the extravagant housing needs of this dandy, thank you very much.

Oh. We think we saw the "Sixth Sense" house, but a surprise twist revealed it was merely an ice cream truck. Twist!

And the gays of Philadelphia leave so much to be desired. Caveat: much of my first impressions were colored by failed attempts on Manhunt to secure a fun filled (and educational) hotel room orgy/reenactment upon our arrival. These queens have some serious sexual hang ups it they're not into Alexander Hamilton role play. But these first impressions were further confirmed as my non-Manhunt interactions with Philly's phaggiest turned downright devastating.

Bryce made me go to an utterly depressing piano bar. An ominous figure in a black robe and scythe took our drink orders. That was clue enough to leave.

Then we went to the Bike Shop, or Bike Rack, or Bike Pit or something meant to color one's senses with Tom o' Finland. This was a multi level "leather" establishment with a "code" room in the basement. Drunk on a Yaeger shot, I actually asked a local if it was kosher for me to wear flip flops as I descended into the darkness. He rolled his eyes at me!

And not an Alexander Hamilton hanky among the entire bunch. I thought this was a "code" bar. Hmph! Ms. Lohan would have found four! But thankfully she wasn't invited to Philly.

The following day, we shuffled through the shuttered streets of downtown Philadelphia seeking a suitable oasis for our, again, churning stomachs. Who could have imagined in a city with so many Phaggots finding brunch would have been so difficult. Finally with the assistance of a young lady who didn't really help (she had no clue where she was either!) we came across a suitable brunch locale.

A disgusting egg white omelette later, we happily said goodbye to America's birthplace. May this Dandy visit again, but with an orgy on standby and a suitable brunch reservation made well in advance.

July 25, 2007

I feel conflicting emotions when discussing my former friend who finds herself in a fit of trouble this week.

While I'm admittedly ashamed to revive the reincarnation of my former self with mention of the dispicable Ms. Lohan, I am proud that I'm saying goodbye to her. I will miss her.

Infact, it's been nearly three weeks, and still I dream of her. Just last night my nocturnal reveries had she and I laughing and cavorting, remembering all the frantic moments spent together: the endless chats about grand schemes wasted, discussing those lustful moments where my decidely fay hand would slip beneath her skirt for a filthy fling with a filthier friend, reliving the dangerous car chases and the pompous strutting that emboldens one's ego when Ms. Lohan is by your side.

My dream, however, did not remember the sleepless mornings as Ms. Lohan screamed into my ear, keeping me awake until the eventual crash stole away yet another Sunday. Also forgotten were the countless bloodied noses as Ms. Lohan punched, abuse well deserved when one dares to party with such a fabulous (yet trashy) celebrity, and I can't leave out the creeping paranoia that it was Ms. Lohan who called my bosses and had me terminated three listless, inactive months ago.

Sitting on my hands, anxiously watching my phone, waiting for Ms. Lohan to call again so we may take to the town in a flight of fancy so fabulous, so fierce, so futile... But she doesn't call. Thank, God.

Allow me to clarify. Ms. Lohan may indeed be your friend as she once was mine. I throw no shade to your dealings with this deadly darling. Suffice to say, she will let you down as she's let me down.